


The Curious Incident of the Astronaut in the Nighttime

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, First time anal, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, blowjob, cosplaying?, does that actually count?, if you're not alternately cackling and dealing with a boner I have failed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“An astronaut’s helmet?” John asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious Incident of the Astronaut in the Nighttime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a-cumberbatch-of-cookies (tishy19)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tishy19/gifts).



> OH MY GOD THE CRACK IS STRONG WITH THIS ONE GUYS.
> 
> I blame this entirely on [a-cumberbatch-of-cookies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tishy19/pseuds/a-cumberbatch-of-cookies) who asked, "“Can I get a scoop of rimming with some orgasm denial sprinkled on top? And a cherry of course. Let’s switch it up and make it John’s! Bonus points for either cowboys or firefighters.”
> 
> aCBoC, just. Thank you. Hahahaha, thank you.
> 
> Also, I saw your cowboys and firefighters and raise you an astronaut.
> 
>  
> 
> For those of you still patiently waiting on the final two chapters of [Under-London](http://archiveofourown.org/works/678934/chapters/1244155>The%20Battle%20for%20London</a>%20in%20the%20<a%20href=) series, I swear it's not abandoned! I will post them as soon as I possibly can!

John had only been fucking Sherlock for about two months before he discovered exactly what the back of Sherlock’s closet was for: 

The very back of the closet sported a rack, where he kept all of his disguises, neatly hung on hangers in alphabetical order of profession. 

It took another two weeks to find out exactly _what_ most of those disguises were for, when they weren’t being used in cases. 

The first time Sherlock had ducked into the closet mid-handjob, he brought out a cowboy hat for John and a pig-tailed wig for himself. John had (understandably) raised his eyebrows, but he was game. And at the very least, Sherlock was too busy getting off to notice how abysmal his Texan accent was. 

Tonight, John had no idea what Sherlock would be bringing out of the closet, so he merely palmed himself and _kept_ _everything going_ until his lover decided to reappear. 

 _Approximately t_ wo minutes and forty-six seconds later (who was counting? Certainly John wasn’t), Sherlock reappeared holding a pair of fireman’s trousers and braces (which, oddly, still smelled of burning building), and an-- 

“An astronaut’s helmet?” John asked, so confused he forgot to stroke himself. 

Sherlock’s eyes darted down to the general vicinity of flagging cock in the region of John, county Bed, and his eyes flicked back up, an eyebrow raised. John got the hint, and remembered his primary duty. 

“Which will I be, then?” John asked, genuinely concerned at the state of anyone getting a blowjob with what looked like an honest-to-god astronaut helmet in the mix. 

“If you’re amenable, I supposed you might take the helmet, as I thought we might try… _undiscovered country_ tonight…” Sherlock drawled, his tone light, which John knew really just meant that he was incredibly intent upon it, but didn’t want to seem eager. 

“Undiscovered---? Oh.” John’s eyes widened. Then they widened some more. And then Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, trying to discern the general reaction, aside from the fact that it produced very big surprised eyes in one John Watson. “Well--I think…” 

In the six months since that first awkward post-case handjob to relieve the adrenaline buzz of nearly dying, John’s arse was still an un-penetrated place. Very few parts of their combined anatomies were otherwise, but this was the last holdout. It was well and truly undiscovered country. 

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I’m perfectly fine with our current arrangement,” Sherlock interrupted cooly, giving the doctor an easy out if needed. 

“No, no,” John said, grinning. “Actually I think I’d like that.” Then remembering his somehow-once-more-forgotten erection, he just let go and rubbed his thigh, the edge of adrenaline creeping into his system at the prospect of finally losing the last vestige of his virginity to his flatmate. 

Sherlock flashed his widest smile, tossing John the helmet. “Don’t put it on just yet--we’ll save it for last,” he said, stepping into the fireman’s trousers. When he pulled the braces up over his narrow shoulders, the effect was slightly ridiculous--the trousers were several sizes large, but it didn’t matter. John knew exactly what was under them, and it added up to six feet of gorgeous, lanky detective. 

“How do you want me?” John asked as Sherlock crossed the floor back to the bed. 

Rather than answer, Sherlock straddled his hips and pushed him back, admiring the sight of a compliant John, which was a rare and beautiful thing indeed. He ducked in and nipped at John’s neck, his ear, darting his tongue out to flick that tiny spot where the conchal shell met the neck, which caused our poor virginal doctor to let out a whimpering huff of breath. Absentmindedly, Sherlock cursed the thick material of the fireman’s trousers, which kept him from properly feeling the way John’s cock would otherwise be nestled right in the cleft of his arse. No matter; they’d be off soon enough. 

In fact-- 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders free from the braces and slid the elastic waistband down to free himself from the (admittedly coarse) fabric, and then shuffled forward on his knees until the only thing separating his cock from John’s eager mouth were a few agonizing inches of space. 

Sherlock leaned forward to prop himself up on his hands, and John knew exactly what was expected--he tucked an arm under his head and licked his lips before pressing them against the fleshy glans offered to him. He ran his lips across it for a moment, enjoying the twofold effect: the shiver of anticipation Sherlock awarded him, as well as the velvety feel of cock he thoroughly enjoyed. 

But our John knew better than to torture the man above him too much--if he dragged it out too long, then there would be no second act, and John was nothing if not a man with priorities. So he leaned upward, taking Sherlock’s cock halfway at first go before pulling back, and the second time Sherlock helped him by canting his hips gently, so that when John came up again, his nose was buried in the mass of curls at the base. John took a long, slow breath through his nose, awash in the scent of _Sherlock_ and _sex_ , swallowing carefully to remind Sherlock just how lovely the back of his throat was. 

“Perfect,” Sherlock groaned, and thrust in just a little more, which had John fighting not to gag and loving every second of it, before Sherlock withdrew completely. He slid off of John and grinned at him. “But I have a better idea.” 

John closed his eyes and smiled a second, absolutely willing to let Sherlock see just how much that ridiculously deep voice affected him. 

“Hands and knees, John,” Sherlock murmured, and if it possible for his voice to go any lower, it did. 

The command and the nearly-bass growl that issued it caused another jolt to shoot directly to John’s now aching cock, but he did as he was told. He rolled over and raised onto hands and knees, enjoying the odd sense of vulnerability that came with having his bare arse up in the air. 

Sherlock ran his hand around the curve of said bare arse, and John closed his eyes, just enjoying the sensation of those wide, smooth palms as they roamed over and up along his sides, but his eyes opened abruptly and he gasped as slick, wet heat blazed its way along his surprisingly sensitive cleft. 

“Oh! Christ! Did you just--” 

But John’s words were strangled as again Sherlock laved his tongue in a thick stripe from John’s perenium to the base of his spine before ducking down, flickering across the puckered ring of muscle. 

John squeezed his eyes shut tight, completely blown away by how intensely, amazingly _hot_ this was, and made unintelligible noises accordingly. If his body rocked back into it, well, that just meant that Sherlock was doing a really superb job. 

But oh, Sherlock wanted to fit into that tight arse! 

 _Patience_ , he chided himself with that small section of brain that actually remained cognizant. And so he devoted the entirety of his attentions to John’s most holiest of holies for a few (in John’s opinion) star-spangled minutes more, until John was helplessly bucking against him, almost _begging_  to be penetrated by that sharp tongue. 

Of course Sherlock obliged. He was nothing if not an observant lover, after all. 

But soon the impatient detective was greedy for more; he stilled John’s rocking hips with his hands, and shifted to nibble and sloppily kiss that sweet spot on the lower inner section of John’s arsecheek, right where it creased and met the upper hamstring, and _fuck_ if John wasn’t whimpering now, bemoaning the loss of that fantastic tongue. 

But Sherlock was on a mission, and that mission was the lube in the bedside table. Target acquired, Sherlock squeezed a generous amount into his cupped hand. He capped the lube quickly and dropped it beside his knee, keeping it nearby in case more was needed later. 

And _oh_ , he hoped it would be. 

Spreading the viscous solution across his fingers and making absolutely certain they were well-oiled, he trailed his middle finger from the base of John’s spine down, down, until he reached that lovely ring of muscle once more. It tightened reflexively despite John’s small, breathy groan, and Sherlock set to massaging it gingerly. 

Again, the thin line of communication between John’s higher thought processes and his mouth was severed, and gibbering half-sentences and dependent clauses issued forth from the doctor’s mouth. 

“Oh, holy--fuck--augh, that’s--” 

“Oh, god, yes--” 

“Hnngh, Sherlock, can you just--” 

“Don’t stop--” 

And so on and so forth until he was bucking again, his cock desperate for some kind of friction. At this point it ached, it dribbled precome, it did everything short of actually develop sentience and beg Sherlock to stroke it on its own. 

Sherlock stilled his movement until the pad of his middle finger rested right at the center of the tight opening. “John, I want you to push back at your own pace. The first ring of muscle is the most difficult--” 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John panted. “I’m a doctor. I’ve _given_ that speech--” 

“Then why aren’t you doing so already?” Sherlock shot back, with a light smack on the arse for John’s cheekiness. 

This, of course, spurred our John into action, and he levered from his shoulders, pushing his body back against Sherlock’s finger. Initially the intrusion burned, but John gritted his teeth and pushed past it, until he took the entirety of Sherlock’s ever-so-lovely philange. 

 _God,_ John thought. _He’s_ inside _me. He’s actually inside me._ The rush of pleasure that such a thought brought was nearly enough to make him come right then and there, but he shifted his weight to his right hand, in order to bring his left to circle the base of his under-loved cock, squeezing it just tight enough that the impending orgasm had no choice but to beat a hasty retreat. John closed his eyes against the pressure of it, drinking in the ache of his cock, the stinging sweetness of Sherlock’s finger pressed into him. 

“That’s right, John. So good,” Sherlock murmured warmly. “You know you can’t finish until I say you can, don’t you?” 

John shook his head and hummed his answer, momentarily overcome with exquisite embarrassment to be ordered around in just such a manner. It was alternately humbling, humiliating, and arousing to be the bear the weight of all Sherlock’s attention, but John loved every minute of it. 

“Now I want you to move, John,” Sherlock said, stroking his own flagging cock with unhurried fingertips. When John followed this order, Sherlock couldn’t help but admire him. “Absolutely irresistable,” he muttered, unable to draw his eyes from the sight of his own digit slipping purposefully in and out of John. “So beautiful. It’s as if you were _made_ to take me.” 

A high-pitched whine escaped John’s throat then, and he pivoted as he pushed back, and _holysweetfuckingchrist_ that was his prostate. 

“You liked that,” Sherlock purred. “You like it when I stroke right there, don’t you?” 

It was a rhetorical question, really, but John vocalized to the affirmative, nonetheless. 

“You like it when I fill you up like this, don’t you?” Sherlock continued. “Just wait. Wait and see how full of me you’ll be--” and Sherlock twisted his wrist so he could lean forward, his mouth sending hot puffs of breath against John’s shoulder, “--when I get to fuck you properly.” 

“Please,” John groaned. “More, please.” 

And since he asked so nicely, Sherlock acquiesced.

 

It took a while, but three fingers and a great deal of restraint on Sherlock’s part later, John was _finally_ ready for him. Sherlock withdrew his fingers and scrabbled for the lube bottle again, and drizzled a thick line down the length of his cock, smearing it around with his messy hand. 

“Are you ready for me?” he asked, and _godfuckingdammit_ but John was so fit to burst that he almost dissolved into an amorphous heap right there on the duvet. 

Sherlock fisted his hand tight and pushed into it a few times, just savoring the feel of glorious friction. “You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined this, John,” he managed. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve lain awake after you went to bed, fucking my own fist just like this, thinking about this very moment.” 

This was all too much for John. “Please,” he whined. “Please--Sherlock, I can’t--!” 

But Sherlock smacked him hard on the arse, the shock of which was just what John needed to delay that inevitable messy finish just a little longer. His gritted cry was a testament to his need to end it all _now_. His whole body was taut, almost shivering, and Sherlock nearly finished right then and there, to see his composed army doctor so undone. 

“Do you want it, John? Do you want my cock in that quivering little arse?” Sherlock growled, pushing his hips forward to brush the tip of aforementioned cock against that over-sensitive opening. 

“Please, ohgod _please_ ,” John begged. “I can’t last much longer, please, give it to me--I need--” but his words were cut off by a drawn-out cry of ecstasy as Sherlock began pushing in. He moved slowly, but not nearly slowly enough to properly acclimate John to the new dimensions, sliding until he was sheathed entirely. 

“So--nngh,” Sherlock grunted. “So _tight_ \--perfect--nngh.” 

John’s elbows collapsed, and he pressed his forehead to the duvet, his eyes squeezed tight once more to revel in the intrusion, to yield to the sense of _being owned in every sense of the word, tapdancingfuck_ but it was good. 

“Not much longer, John,” Sherlock panted, and rocked his hips gently, thrusting as minutely as possible. “Come with me--almost--so good--just--” 

He broke off, snapping his hips with a little more vigor, which made John cry out shapeless vowels into the bedspread. 

“ _Now,_ John!” Sherlock commanded, and he pulled out just far enough to push in at a much shallower angle, giving John’s prostate just the right nudge to send the boneless doctor careening into oblivion. 

And John? He couldn’t possibly tell you the things he called out--it may have been a prayer, or a thank-you, or just Sherlock’s name again and again until he had no voice left, his abdomen contracting him nearly in half with the force of his orgasm, and he felt Sherlock shuddering hard behind him, those strong fingertips pressing almost painfully into the meat of his arse, as he followed John with his own finale. 

After what felt like a complete rotation of the earth beneath them, they collapsed into a messy heap on the bed, just breathing and existing. John’s stomach pressed into the puddle of semen Sherlock had wrought from him, and he found he didn’t mind in the slightest. Sherlock, for his part, eventually remembered the use of his arms, and stroked John’s body lightly, purring his praises until his softened cock slipped free of John’s arse. 

It was with great effort he pushed himself up and off of the bed, to stumble toward the bathroom for a few flannels with which to clean them off. John’s eyes followed him, amazed to realize that somehow Sherlock was _still_ wearing those fireman’s trousers. 

Once Sherlock was out of eyesight, John mustered enough strength to push his upper body off the bed, and grab the forgotten astronaut’s helmet. He stashed it under the bed and barely had time to collapse once more as he heard the tap being shut off. When Sherlock reappeared, John gave him a lazy smile, and hoped that the eagle-eyed detective wouldn’t notice the missing helmet.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
>   * **[My Fic Rec Blog](http://spoilersauce.tumblr.com)** , if you're into multifandom recs.
>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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